Heart
She hallowed out her heart again,
She tore out all the black.
Then scraped the walls with her bare hands,
Until she reached the back.
She washed off all the rusted screws,
And broken veins, and pounding wounds.
She tried to make sense of this scene,
But honestly, she could not think.
She knew she had to start fresh,
But in her chest was left a mess.
But in her hands was left the flesh,
Of memories and secrets kept.
Copyright © Ira Dawson | Year Posted 2012
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